Wings of Wax
by Emu
Summary: An AU in which the road to the imminent ruin of the friendship of Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindlewald all starts with two boys searching for angels. WARNING! While this is rated T, it does have two rather intense and slightly gory scenes.


Emu: Welp, whaddya know? Another Harry Potter one shot. This idea popped into my head a few months ago and I figured I'd write it down. It might be a wee bit odd and does contain minor (well, maybe major, depends on your perspective I suppose) Deathly Hallows spoilers. It is not fully canon compliant though (the main crux of the story is not in the least bit canon). Also, in this version Dumbledore and Gellert are best friends but have no romantic inclinations towards one another. Personally, I never got that vibe while reading the novels, so I'm not presenting it here. Lastly, this is all in first person from Dumbledore's point of view.

* * *

**Wings of Wax**

I remember the first time you told me of those beautifully horrible notions of yours. It was on a pleasant enough day—the sky blue, the clouds fluffy, and the song birds out in force—made that much more grand by virtue of the fact that the world outside was _outside_. Being trapped in close confines with Ariana was stiflingly oppressive and I couldn't wait until you sent me the owl holding the note inviting me to meet you. The note gave me proper justification, you see. If I just left the house on my own fancy, well that made me a heartless and terrible brother, but a note—ah a _NOTE—_that makes the overwhelming urge to flee acceptable. After all, I was just going to see a dear friend who had a right to want to see me every once in a while, certainly not running from my poor sister who couldn't in any way help the utter resentment I felt towards her for robbing me of my dreams and goals.

Alas, I seem to have run quite a tangent from where I intended to go with these nostalgic reflections. Now, where was I…ah! Yes. Your notions.

I can still feel that warm breeze on my face as I emerged into our clearing. It was the one place in the world that felt private and isolated—that felt like it belonged solely to us. It's odd. Thinking on it now, I realize that we never actually did encounter another person whilst there. Wildlife occasionally passed through and then of course there was the _incident_, but I'm getting ahead of myself. For all intents and purposes, the woodland clearing, that circling meadow, was ours to discover and conquer and claim as our own. It existed _for_ us. It—

"Albus! 'Bout time you got here."

Blast. Even in my own memories you have the ability to draw me out of my introspection.

"My apologies. Perhaps if you let your poor owl eat more often I wouldn't have had to take the time necessary to give him a proper feeding before I left."

"Bah! What are you talking about? Kuslov is practically a bowling ball with wings. You're to blame for that, aren't you?" You raise your eyebrow and smirk facetiously at me.

"You've caught me. What can I say? It's all a heinous plot of mine to gradually irritate you to an early death," I reply as I grin back.

"I knew it!" You laugh softly. Waving a hand in that way that says you are finished indulging our banter, you say, "Murder attempts aside, I have something to show you."

"Oh? And what grand revelation are you bestowing upon my inferior being today?"

Your eyes alight with that mischievous gleam that signifies that you have worked out some new and wonderful theory. I wait patiently for you to finish stroking your ego with one of your carefully constructed dramatic pauses. You always had a tendency to do that. You always had to pause just long enough to ensure that all the attention was upon you before you chose to relate an idea. I never could fathom why you'd do that when it was just the two of us. It's not as though there was anyone else to whom I would be listening. And you know that my mind wanders the moment things go silent. It's just habit I supp—

"I, my good friend, have found a way to feel the presence of beings of great power. Beings that no one has seen in hundreds of years and who many, nay, nearly all in the wizarding world do no think exist."

There you go interrupting me yet again. I guess I never quite realized precisely how egotistical you are.

"Oh really," I say skeptically as I pretend to examine some imaginary dirt under my fingernails. "And pray tell, what beings are those?"

You snicker heartily. Apparently, I have said something of humor. "It is quite appropriate that you _pray_ that I tell you."

I admit to being slightly intrigued. Curse you for rousing my curiosity. If only I had paid more attention to the saying about the cat.

"Alright. I'll bite. What on earth are you talking about?"

Your expression hardens into a serious mask. Very slowly and theatrically, you lift your hands above you and splay your fingers. In an authoritative voice, you proclaim "Angels."

"Angels?" I incredulously repeat.

"That's right." You glare at my obvious lack of belief, challenging me to verbally contradict you.

"Mmmmhmmm."

"I am being serious!" you yell indignantly, swiftly lowering your hands to clench them into fists at your sides. It's funny how fast to anger you are. I expect you to start stamping your foot in a premature tantrum any second.

"I don't doubt it." I smile teasingly.

"FINE! Don't believe me. I just won't show you how you can feel their presence." You cross your arms with an audible _HUMPH!_ and turn away. I roll my eyes good-naturedly. For someone so intelligent, you can be so emotionally moronic sometimes.

"Okay, okay. I sincerely apologize, oh Enlightened One. However can I express my deepest regrets for having disbelieved you?" I fling myself on the ground before you and attempt to look repentant. At the time, I fail to notice the overly satisfied glint in your eye at the sight of someone prostrate before you.

"Fear not. My patience and generosity are limitless," you assure me as you lightly pat my bowed head. You offer me a hand and pull me up so we are once again on even footing.

"So, how exactly does one feel the presence of an angel?"

"I'll show you. Close your eyes," you instruct softly. I hesitate. This seems so foolish. "Go on. Close them," you say more forcefully in face of my reluctance.

"Alright, alright," I mutter and obediently close them.

"Focus on the sensations around you. Feel the breeze in the air." I absorb the subtle rustle of my hair as the wind flows through it. I feel it as it passes gently through my clothing and nudges my legs. "The warmth of the sun." I slightly upturn my face and take in the warmth upon my cheeks. "The ground beneath your feet." I rock lightly on my feet and enjoy the soft padding of the long grass. "Everything about you has an energy. Concentrate on the different ones flowing around you. Now, think about how casting magic feels. Imagine the hum of it as it courses through your wand. Visualize the act of saying spells and the emotions that you feel as you do so." I remember the first time that I held a wand in my hand at Ollivander's.

It took forever to find the wand for me. Ollivander—poor old man—constantly had to dodge and dive behind tables and other such surface to avoid the increasingly spectacular explosions resulting from my overenthusiastic flicks and swishes. The sensation of magic emanating from the unique cores had tangible flavors. The twelve inch unicorn hair felt cottony yet smooth, almost slimy; the eight inch dragon heartstring spicy, the ten and three quarters inch with griffin feather was energetic with a spit of tang.

I was perfectly content swinging various wands and experiencing each and every one, thoroughly destroying the shop in the process. I could have continued like that all day, it seems, that is until I found—or rather it found me—_the_ wand. The perfect fit for my innate magic. For my essence. It felt…empowering, like a pure shot of adrenalin straight to the brain. It was like jumping off a cliff, arms widespread, with the thrilling sensation of plummeting yet knowing that death's reach was just shy of being able to claim you.

Casting spells with the proper wand was a combination of channeling that untamed thrill and controlling it. With each spell and each emotion felt when casting each spell, the feel of the magic altered slightly like a sentient river. It was more and simultaneously less than mastering oneself.

"Good. Good," you breathe softly in approval. "You can recognize your own magic and are aware of the environment around you. Now, try to _feel_ the magics of those around you."

My brow furrows in concentration. There's something in the air about me…a…something. A niggling of sorts. Knowing that you possess magic and are a powerful source of it at that, I first attempt to discern your flow from mine. It was like trying to find a trickling side stream from the midst of a raging torrent. Just as I start to feel like my brain will violently erupt inside my head and ooze graphically out of my ears, I hone in on your magical essence.

"Cinnamon," I chuckle.

"Cinnamon?"

"Yes. You. You inspire cinnamon with a tinge of ginger and feel…rough. Rough and sort of ragged. Aggressive." I open my eyes and squint with mirth. It seems that I completely overlooked that bitter almond, razor sharp strand snaking through your magical flow. In retrospect, even if I had been more aware of it, I probably would have just ignored it or interpreted it as normal teenage angst. What a fool I was.

"You make me sound unrefined," you snort and upturn your nose.

"Oh no. You're definitely refined. But not…overly polished? Like an ornate, large battleaxe."

"Are you calling me fat?" You jest, arms crossed over your chest.

"Oh heavens no! I'm calling you hefty and blunt," I snigger in response. You slap me playfully upside the head.

"Eyes closed!" you order gruffly. I'm starting to wonder if you're not a smidgeon bipolar.

"Okay." I grin and once again close them.

"Now, keep trying to find the presences around you. Don't try to focus specifically on anything. Just….feel out what's there."

Feel what's out there? This is all starting to sound a bit bohemian. What is it that the muggles like to do to feel all loopy like this? Smoke ope-ee-um, wasn't it? I'm fairly certain that's what Aberforth called it. Aberforth and his bizarre fascinations. I swear sometimes he can be so…and there I go merrily diverging form the point once again. Perhaps I should talk to someone about this concentration problem I have…

I pleasantly absorb the slight tingle of the various currents of the forest around us. Magical plants and trees flourish here. It's astonishing how easy it is to feel the currents when moments ago it was almost impossible to feel even the relative explosion of power emanating from my friend. I suppose it's just one of those things that once you're made aware of, you can't ever again ignore, like the realization that every child inevitably stumbles upon—adults are fallible. The moment you reach such a startling conclusion it's immensely easy to recognize the truth of it everywhere you look. It's easy to see it when a father leaves his family to struggle on its own in a misguided effort to sustain it. It's easy to see it in a mother who tries and fails to protect her daughter. It's easy to see it when no adult steps up to offer support in a dire situation. And, in self-reflecting retrospect, it's easy to see when a child who should have undertaken his adult responsibilities properly instead of selfishly clinging to what-could-have-beens miserably failed the people who meant the most to him. But that has yet to have happened in this reminiscent retelling.

There's a faint vibration oscillating from somewhere in between the trees. It feels energetic, alert, warm, fuzzy, and not a tad hyperactive. Mutable yet determinedly single minded and simple. Must be a kneazle digging for something. There's another much smaller source of energy that I'd wager to be of pixie origin off somewhere to the lef…

"WHOAH!" I can feel my eye as they bulge most comically out of my shocked skull.

"Find something, did you?" You smirk with superiority.

"What-what _is_ that?" I can't believe it. How could I have possibly missed something so blindingly overpowering? It's wonderful and dizzying, light and joyful, warm and soft, overwhelming but somehow subtle. It's comfortable and addictive. I'm starting to feel faint as the buzzing nudges of energy surround me.

"That, my friend, is an angel. You may want to sit down before you fall down," you suggest calmly. In my accelerating state of awed befuddlement, I agree and hastily plop down onto the grass. This sensation is like nothing I've ever experienced. It's discovering the perfect wand ten times over, jumping off of that cliff and sailing into oblivion, having the world flip upside-down, and then falling again, perpetually, tumbling over and over.

"How," I swallow and try to articulate my thoughts clearly, "how can you be so unaffected?"

"You get used to the euphoria after a few minutes. It helps if you concentrate on the source and then imagine yourself as being separate from it. Find the origin and then mentally distance yourself." You wait patiently for my blissfully fogged mind to comply. It's exceedingly difficult because I _don't_ want to distance myself. I want to just drown in the enveloping warmth. Reluctantly, I take a deep breath and focus on pinpointing the core of the energy. It's somewhere in the distance to my right. I disentangle myself from the gratifying pulsating mass by shifting my attention to my own heartbeat. It thrums in the pit of my chest, paralleling the humming pounding of the energy. My confounding ecstasy dulls to a fervent but manageable elation to be alive.

"Unbelievable," I laugh, falling onto my back and flinging my arms about my head. The sky looks so wonderfully blue.

"It's a magnificent feeling, isn't it?" You sit down next to me and smile softly. I'm aware that I'm grinning like an idiot but can't seem to help myself.

"That is an understatement. But…how do you know it's an angel?"

"You've just felt one and you have to ask? Albus, Albus." You shake your head. "Why do you choose to ignore what is so obvious? What other creature could possibly emit such an awesome and _pure_ power?"

I shrug helplessly. "Haven't the foggiest. But how can you be absolutely certain? I mean, I know that that energy is coming from right in front of us but I can't see what's causing it. Maybe it's just a really strong ward? Or an enchanted object?"

"Of course it is," you reply as though I'm a moron. Who knows? Maybe I am. "Ever the doubter. Observe," you say and stand abruptly. With measured but confident steps, you stride directly towards the source of power. The source begins to shift and twitter as you get closer. Finally—you're about two yard away from it—it languidly springs upwards and sails away in the sky, the many silken strands attached to it bunching up and swirling away with it. Everything suddenly becomes much sharper, as though a filter has been removed and everything is in focus. I feel a brief mournful pain in my chest at the loss.

"See? Can a ward move Albus? Can an enchanted object sprout wings and fly?"

I'm ever the skeptic and am not ready to concede defeat, so I answer somewhat snidely, "Wards—although it's nearly unheard of—can be attached to people and animals, so yes, they can move. I've also been to some locations that move sporadically, so again, they most certainly can. Furthermore, enchanted objects, while I've never seen one sprout any wings per se, are often times capable of flight. Case in point: a broomstick." In the far reaches of my mind, I have to admit that no ward or object I've ever encountered has been able to move so freely and organically, but you don't need to know that. Your ego itself might sprout wings and fly away if it got another boost.

You glare at me and if looks could kill, there would only be a pile of smoking ash to mark my passing. I'm ignorant of the truly malicious glint in your eyes, but it passes quickly and softens into a recognizable, friendly exasperation.

"Must you always be so contentious?" You sigh in dismay.

"I'm not contentious. I'm just cautious. If I weren't around to question you, your theories wouldn't be strong enough to sustain themselves in the face of adversity. Plus, I'm still not entirely convinced. I guess I'd have to-", you cut me off abruptly.

"-see it to believe it?" You question with a quirk of your lips.

"Well, yes."

"Ah," you smile knowingly, "that, my friend, I am still working on."

* * *

The second time you brought up your sweetly savage notions was on a day with a disposition far worse than the previous. The weather wasn't at fault, but rather my younger brother. He was most displeased with my apparent lack of concern for Ariana as of late and had the audacity to claim that I didn't care whether or not she was happy so long as I was. At the time, I was furious. How _dare_ he? How dare he accuse me of not caring when I was sacrificing my entire future for Ariana and her happiness? At the end of the summer, he got to go back to school, got to keep pursuing his dreams. I felt cheated and trapped in a destiny far inferior to the one that should rightly have been mine. I know now how utterly selfish and naïve I was. I would trade anything, _anything_, now for the privilege, the joy, of watching after my sister, of being with her. Alas, divination was never my strong suite and such ponderings of what-could-have-beens will devour the sanity and soul of a man.

"Albus!" You shout my name in that way that makes it sound more like you're saying "Al-boose" rather than "Al-bus". You never learned to pronounce it quite right. "There you are." You skid to a stop next to me and frown thoughtfully. "Why so glum?"

"Aberforth," I growl softly.

"Ahhh. He is giving you trouble about your sister again?" I can't believe I missed the slight sneer in your voice as you say "sister." Did you really look down upon her thus even then? But who am I to judge?

"Yes. He's upset that I left her alone for a few hours. It's not like I didn't ensure she couldn't hurt herself before leaving," I huff and throw my right hand out angrily. "I'm a wizard, you know? I can place spells on her to make sure she'll be okay. I'm not completely irresponsible."

"You're not in the least bit irresponsible," you intervene.

"Nor am I incompetent."

"No rational person could ever accuse you of being so. Your brother is shortsighted and being unfair." You are an expert at crafting words. I know now that what you really meant to say was that my brother is an idiot. But that would have upset me, wouldn't it?

"I know. It's just…frustrating."

"I understand." No, no you don't and you never really will. "If it had not been for those _muggles_ your family would not be in such straits."

"I know and I hate them for it!" I clench my hands into shaking fists.

"The current state of the Ministry is such that people like them can get away with hurting innocent wizards. Muggles are gaining too much leeway. Something needs to be done."

I am righteously enraged, but the mist of red shading my eyes can't block the distant echo of my mother's words said years ago: _Hatred will not solve our problems. Allowing it to cloud our minds will only lead to more injustice._ I deflate. "I agree, but it's not as though we should punish all of them for the mistakes of a few cruel ones."

"Of course not," you swiftly interject. "However, muggles…they don't understand us and their ignorance is a danger to us as well as to themselves. They don't want to understand us either. Look at poor Ariana." Oh _now_ she's a subject of pity, is she? "She's the victim of the innate instinct that muggles posses to eradicate that which confuses them. It is our duty, as beings with both the power and the intellect, to change things for the betterment of all. For the greater good." And there it is: that twisted and horrible phrase—the first foul utterance of it. I can feel the poison of it, even now, seeping into my bones, gradually rotting my muscles, and liquefying my nerves. How I shudder now.

"Yes. We could change things so that no one would ever have to suffer like that."

"Indeed we could. But let us not think on it now. I have something else to show you that will set your mind at ease." You beckon me to one side of our clearing and sit down. "Do you remember how I taught you to feel the presence of angels?"

I would have to be soft in the head if I didn't considering it had happened a week ago. "Naturally."

"Good." You squint up at me, obviously disliking your lower vantage point. I quickly sit down beside you and you are instantly assuaged. "I now know how to do more than just feel them."

"Oh?" I prompt.

You motion towards your left ear. "I can now _hear_ them as well."

"Really?" I hadn't meant to let excitement leak into my voice.

"It is so. I will show you. First, there is an angel nearby; seek out its presence."

"Okay." I close my eyes and search for that amazing warmth that enveloped me in our prior lesson. There it is…but…there's something odd about it. It doesn't feel as fresh and welcoming as last time. It's tougher and shinier. My frowning expression evidences my confusion.

"Albus," you lightly smack my shoulder, "you didn't honestly think that all angels feel the same, did you?"

It makes sense that they wouldn't but this had not occurred to me. "I suppose not," I hesitantly reply.

"No source of magic is exactly like another," you say slowly, as though to a small child. "That's part of what makes magic, magic. In any event, now that you've found it, familiarize yourself with _this_ angel. Focus solely on it to the exclusion of all else, but don't become consumed by it. Remember to separate yourself from it. I think you'll find it easier to do with this one as it doesn't seem as gripping as the last."

You're right, it is far easier to keep myself in perspective with this one. It's still intoxicating and I could easily lose myself to a liberating haze, but I feel only a prickle of regret at not doing so.

"Keep it up. Don't let what I'm about to do distract you."

"What are you about to-"

"_Silentium purus!_"

The abrupt onslaught of absolute silence startles me. I have never before experienced such encompassing quite. No rustling of grass nor high-pitched tonal noise plays upon my eardrums. I nearly lose focus on the angel as I conclude that this is a surefire way to go insane. The madness creeps in the silence, leisurely venturing closer to me. Heaving out a deep sigh, I ignore its subtle approach and place all of my concentration upon the task at hand.

_…Bbbbwwrrrrrrr…BBBBBWWWWwwrrr…_

A deep, rumbling vibration; the purring of metallic strings gently rattles my bones.

_Kakkam! BA DUM! Kakkam! BA DUM!_

Heavy percussion, like that of a great drum, shakes through my chest. The sound is without me and within me. It moves like a war dance. My body hums to the rhythm.

_Pwit…pwit…pwitpwit…pwit_

Suddenly, a thread of rain, the drip of water, melds in with the vibrating strings and hollow blasts, making the blood in the veins of my legs and arms turn cold. It's a dizzyingly relaxing sensation. My limbs feel alert and poised as though key parts of my body have been dowsed in icy water. My chest is still pulsating.

All of the sounds fuse into a gushing wind of harmony, blowing lowly, building to _crescendo_, sustaining, then descending into _staccato_ bursts, before the sounds softly separate, flirt with each other, and rejoin back into subtle melody. I am listening…no, no that's not quite right. I am _filtering_ the most unusually invigorating song that I have ever had the fortune to hear. It is a symphony of the utmost emotion and passion. It is life and I am breathing it. But this is not a simple song of the joyful folly of being, nor a song of gratitude and awe. It is a song of strength, one speaking of honor and loyalty, of power and diligence, of might and right. It promises retribution upon the wicked with a heavy hammer to back that promise.

"_Finite Incantetum,"_ your lips intone.

I barely recognize that the music of the angel's voice is fading. My head is literally spinning.

"Albus," you murmur amusedly. When that fails to gain you a response, you lightly pat my shoulder and try in a louder voice, "Albus."

"Hmmmm?" You sound so far and yet so very near, as though you are vibrating through me as well. I am left wondering in bafflement when you happened to take up residence inside my skull.

"Albus, you are losing yourself again," you admonish me gently.

"Am I? Well, draw me a map and I'll find myself later."

You laugh heartily. "Ah, but what good would a map be without a point of reference?"

Your return witticism is lost on me. I'm fluttering happily away and blissfully ignoring you. And I have to admit, ignoring you is perhaps more blissful than it should be.

"Come Albus, up you get. You can't stay here all day." You heft me unsteadily to my feet. "We've already been here four hours and—"

"Four HOURS?!" My attention vigorously tramples my daze to fragments. "We-we can't have been here that long. You jest! Surely!"

"I fear seriousness is my close companion in this matter. As I said, you've nearly lost yourself again, so too has time escaped you."

"I've got to get home!"

You glare at me in annoyance. "So I was just saying," you grumble.

"I have to check on my sister!" I hastily scramble out of your grasp and trot towards home. I am most shocked that from this current vantage point; I can see you raise your wand angrily. Were you really going to curse me for leaving abruptly? Was that such an unforgivable grievance? Sweet Merlin! How could I have stood by you for so long? Luckily for my past person, I remember my manners and sprint back a pace.

"That was amazing, Gellert!" A quick boost to your ego was my saving grace, it seems. "But I still don't know if I'm convinced," I say jocularly. "I still haven't actually seen one of them yet!"

"Just you wait, Albus. When next we meet…you'll see."

* * *

"How _dare_ you! You had no right to do that, Aberforth!" I am seething.

"I had no right? What about YOU, Albus, HUH?! What _right_ did you have to _imprison_ your sister so that you could gallivant off with that good-for-nothing, overbearing, selfish—" Aberforth is seething as well.

"Shut UP! Gellert is none of those things! And I didn't imprison Ariana! She was perfectly fine."

"Because I came home early and made sure of it!"

"Oh please," I roll my eyes, "like that made a difference."

"It most certainly did! Our sister isn't some-some-some sort of _pet_ that you can lock up when you don't feel like looking after her."

"Oh, right, you would know," I growl. The battle of seething is about to turn really foul.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, you, on your high and pristine horse, can criticize me because you NEVER actually have to look after her!"

"What? WHAT?! I look after Ariana! I look after her more than you, and it's supposed to be your responsibility!"

"I NEVER ASKED FOR IT TO BE!" I scream, my veins bulging in angry protest. We're both breathing raggedly. I can't tell whose glare is more malicious. It's a good thing you had the presence of mind to place silencing charms around Ariana's bedroom, otherwise, I'm sure our argument would have woken her and left her in tears. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I would have acted most…unkindly towards her had she come crying into the room at that moment.

"So," Aberforth hisses lowly, "she's just a burden to you, is she?"

"I didn't say that."

"Oh no? You know what, Albus? PISS ON YOU! It's obvious that you care more about spending time with your poisonous freak of a friend than caring for your _family_. So, FINE! You want your _damned_ _precious_ letters? Take them! Take them and get out! We don't need you! I'll take care of Ariana," Aberforth screams as he hurtles your letters to me—the ones that he secretly stole so I'd never know of them, the ones that I discovered and that started this fight—onto the squat table in the living room.

"Stop being so childish. We both know that you have to go back to school soon," I sigh in frustration and snatch up my letters before Aberforth can steal them back.

"Forget school! Unlike _you_, _I_ have a job! I can just use my saved up money to get someone—someone _trustworthy_—to watch Ariana while I'm gone. I don't need to finish school to make a living."

"Come off it, Aberforth! You need to finish school! Working at some bar for the rest of your life is no way to make a living," I collapse onto the couch, carefully avoiding eye contact, and pretend to calmly rifle through my letters.

"You're not the boss of me. At least, I actually care. You could make stones weep." Aberforth stomps out of the current room and I assume towards Ariana's. At the door, he pivots on his heel, grabs the frame, and says with clenched jaw, "And I won't be only washing dishes forever. I'll own my _own_ bar someday." With that he twists back around and storms up the stairs. Surprisingly, he doesn't slam any doors. His enraged footsteps seem unsatisfactorily incomplete in the absence.

"Stupid Aberforth," I mumble under my breath. As I watch my past self meticulously reading over my missed letters from you, I am deeply disgusted. At times, the egocentricity of youth is truly repulsive.

"Hoot. Hoo. Hoo. Hoot."

I glance up at the open window on the opposite wall in time to seen Kuslov soar in and sink gracelessly onto the couch next to me. He hits the cushions face first and struggles with his great girth to stand upright and face me. I chuckle lightly as I watch him try fruitlessly to lift his leg without toppling onto the floor. After his fifth failed attempt, I take pity on the bird and reach over to remove your most recent letter.

"You have the most impeccable timing, you know that, my feathered friend?" I rub his head affectionately. He responds with his odd choking, gurgling purr that sounds like a contentedly drowning cat.

"This," I brandish the letter without bothering to open it, "is my ticket out of here."

"Hoot?" Kuslov utters in befuddlement.

"Gellert needs to see me, yes? And after missing all of his other missives, it'd be rude to ignore him again." It's truly amazing how routine habits suck the logic and reason right out of one's skull. Here I am, using once again a letter as an excuse to leave my sister unattended, acting as though this is a perfectly viable and justifiable reason to abandon my duties when Aberforth just chewed me out for this very same and very self-serving behavior. Harboring the memory span of a particularly dull goldfish is extremely convenient.

"Hoo," Kuslov gargles in agreement.

"Come Kuslov, let's be off then," I say cheerily and extend my arm to the flustered owl. Kuslov glares at it warily and with disdain. He's not too keen on being off somewhere again when he's just managed to arrive at a given destination without suffering brain damage or other major trauma—a feat for him. He burrows into the couch with ostentatious recalcitrance.

"Oh, come on now. You can't stay here. There's no telling what Aberforth might do to you if he finds you in his temper. You don't want to be drop kicked out of the house, do you?" I try to reason with the defiant owl. He's having none of it and awards me the hairy eyeball.

"Hoorawrl," he snarls in an attempt to be menacing. I try not to snicker. Rumbling, blubbery feather-balls do not exactly inspire terror.

"That's too bad. Here I have this new, shiny," Kuslov's beady eyes widen ridiculously with each word, "galleon. I was going to let you have it, but if you'd rather stay here…" I need say no more. Kuslov launches off of the couch and wiggles unsteadily on my arm. I hold out the aforementioned galleon and he snatches it in his beak with zeal. He proceeds to chew on it and shake it enthusiastically around with one foot. He's the only owl I know whose lust for gold rivals any human's. The greedy creature actually has a hoard of gold bracelets, watches, rings, you name it, stored up in a tree near where you are staying. He's especially fond of galleons, a fact I shamelessly exploit to garner his cooperation. It always makes me laugh whenever I imagine the panic he'll be in once you have to return home at summer's end. He'll doubtless be in a downright tizzy trying to figure out how to export his sizeable collection.

"That's better. Hang on, Kuslov. We're off," I proclaim with glee. My fight with my brother is already ancient history; his impending anger at discovering me once again gone from the house couldn't be further from my mind.

* * *

"Gellert! Gellert, over here!" I shout and wave energetically to my friend. Gellert is sitting in the shade beneath a great tree at the edge of our clearing. He's in the middle of the exhilarating task of ripping up grass as I approach. He looks in my direction, a heavy glower weighing down his visage.

"Nice of you to finally deign to show," he grouses as I plop down beside him. Kuslov gratefully extricates himself from my arm and lands in a dazed heap on the ground. I completely miss how the bird hastily and cautiously sidesteps my friend's feet, as though he expects to be kicked.

"I'm sorry. My brother, I've recently discovered, was _stealing_ your letters to me and hiding them in the writing desk downstairs."

"So, I take it you didn't open my latest letter, then?" There's something suspicious in your slanted eyes, but again, my shield of ignorance stands up to reality's firm jab.

"The moment Kuslov flew in, I left to meet you. So, I haven't had the chance to read it yet. It's sitting on the living room table."

"Oh, well, that's not important. It merely requests that we meet here today. No need to read its redundancy," you quickly state. I stupidly sense nothing untoward in this response and nod amicably.

"In any event," you continue as you lean back against the trunk of the tree, "I have finally figured out how to fulfill your request."

"My re…? Oh! You've done it then?" I ask partly ecstatic and partly disbelieving. "You can see them now?"

You smile smugly. "Indeed. And lucky for you, they seem to frequent this clearing quite often."

"There is something mysterious about it. Nothing ever seems to venture here but us…and them." My eyes are alight with anxious merriment.

"I highly suspect that magic flows more freely here and more powerfully."

"Quite. But never mind that! How do you do it? Ho do you _see_?"

"You have to have one to see before you can see it."

"Oh. Right." My face falls despondently.

"Fortunately for you, one happens to be here."

"Really? You're not having me on?"

"Would I do that?" you ask impishly.

"Yes, yes you would. You're evil," I joke.

"Aw well. You have me there. I guess I'll just have to tell you how to see one, and you can determine for yourself whether or not I'm being facetious."

"Right then! So?"

"You'll never see one if you're so worked up. Calm yourself." You smile jovially and wait for me to overdramatically take several deep breaths.

"I am calm. I am at peace. I am…going to go crazy if you don't start talking!" I poke you playfully in the ribs. You push me over, nearly squishing Kuslov in the process. The owl shakes his head in dismay and struts over to the relative safety of a large rock. He ruffles his feathers and hunkers down for a nap.

"Alright. Alright. You know the first part of the process already."

"Seek out the angel's presence."

"Right." Taking a deep breath in earnest this time, I reach out for the bright strands that I've grown accustomed to finding. This angel bears much more likeness to the first angel rather than the second. It has that same encompassing warmth, but is more glowing, light, and curious. It has that wonderful sheen of innocence, feeling of sunshine and giggles with a hint of the mischievous. I can't help thinking of the faerie Puck and his antics in A Midsummer's Night Dream.

"Found him?"

"Hmmm."

"Good. Now, face the source. And Albus?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going to need to open your eyes," you opine with a smirk. I wasn't aware that I'd closed them.

"Oh yeah." I open my eyes and stare expectantly at the center of the clearing. Nothing. Nothing but swaying grass and a scant few boulders. I squint, turn my head left and right, close my eyes and reopen them again. Still nothing.

"Having fun?" you query.

"No. What am I doing wrong?"

"Mmmm…just about everything. If seeing them was as easy as feeling them out and then looking, don't you think we'd have seen one long ago? It takes some doing to hear one, let alone see one, as you well know."

"Very well. What should I be doing?"

"Changing your perspective."

"Can you perhaps be more specific?"

"Angels are beings of air and light, right?"

"Sure."

"So, to see them in their element, you need to immerse yourself in it."

"In other words?"

"Get out of the shade and go stand on that rock." You point to the rock that Kuslov is sitting by. The bulbous owl, sensing that his area is under scrutiny, slowly inches open one speculative eye.

"You want me to stand on a rock?"

"You want to see one?" you counter.

"Ugh. Fine," I sigh resignedly and move to comply. Kuslov, seeing his safe haven being encroached on, perks up and starts hissing at me.

"Easy, Kuslov. I'm just borrowing your rock for a second," I try placating the bird. He fluffs his feathers to their maximum dimensions and hops in, what he must think, is an intimidating dance.

"Oh, Kuslov! SHUT UP!" you shout and chuck a stick at him. Kuslov dodges and prepares to continue his unhappy protest. A glare from you convinces him to abandon the cause and slink off to another spot. I find myself the recipient of the dirtiest look an owl has ever bestowed on a human being.

"Sorry Kuslov," I sincerely apologize. Kuslov growls and turns away from us with a flourish.

"Temperamental fowl," you grumble.

I climb atop Kuslov's former rock and turn towards the angel. "Now what?"

"Imagine yourself as an angel."

"Who has to imagine?"

"Har. Har. Seriously. Think of yourself as gliding leisurely in the air. You're looking down on the world, content with the knowledge that no one can see you."

"Alright." I try to follow your instructions but still fail to see anything other than empty clearing.

"It helps if you flap your arms."

"…Umm…you're joking, right?"

"If you don't want to see one—"

"I'm flapping. I'm flapping." This is by far the silliest thing I've ever—revise that—the silliest thing I've done this summer. I start half-heartedly flapping my arms.

"Tch. I doubt you'd actually be off the ground with that poor showing."

"Says you," I mumble but proceed to flap more vigorously.

"Still not convincing," you sing.

"I'm trying!" I flap manically. That's about the point at which you lose it.

"HAHAHAHA!"

I immediately cease my flailing. "You were having me on."

"You should have seen yourself! Oh Albus. If you just believe in yourself a little more, I'm sure you'll take off!" You roll around the ground.

"I'll be sure to lay an egg on your head when I do."

"What a horrible mental image."

"You, or me laying an egg?"

"I was referring to the hapless person with whom you'd be having eggs."

"Said he who has never had a girlfriend."

"You really shouldn't disparage yourself in the third person like that."

"Why not? That last stunt has just shattered any self-esteem I may once have had."

"Oh, poor Albus. Joking aside," you wipe a tear from your eye as you calm yourself, "I was being completely somber when I told you that you needed to change your perspective."

"Should I try standing on my head?" I snipe sarcastically.

"No. I was not referring to a physical perspective," you say as if to a dimwit, "I was talking about a mental one."

"Ah," is my only response.

"Tell me, Albus. What is it that you are thinking, or rather, expecting when you are trying to see the angel?"

"Oh…I don't know. A white robed being with halos of light?"

"I thought as much. Your expectations are precisely what are preventing you from actually seeing anything. Your magic is conflicting with and tainting the reality of the situation."

"And it's doing that how exactly?"

"The way that angel magic works, the way it masks them, is by interacting with our magic and deflecting it back at us. We either don't believe in them, hence their magic enhances that belief and feeds it to us, or we expect to see a version of them that's incorrect."

"And since that vision is false, we can't see what isn't?"

"Yes. Something like that. They are essentially cloaked in misconception."

"So, to see one, I shouldn't try to see one?"

You heave a put-upon sigh. "Just…focus on the presence and allow your magic to 'meet' the angel's. Introduce yourself magically, so to speak."

"Well, I suppose it is rude to just openly stare without first saying hello," I chuckle. I huff out a breath of air and concentrate once more on the angel. "Just say hello. Just…saying hello."

"You don't have to keep standing on the rock," you interrupt my chain of thought.

"Oh, right." I jump off of the rock and return to the task at hand. My absorption prevents me from noticing Kuslov as he stalks back to his former spot and sits squarely on it.

"Take two." I enhance my connection with the angel's energy and then focus on my own. My energy awaits in my veins, coiling and anxious. Grasping control of the magical sensation, I gently force it outwards, allowing it to flow in the angel's direction. It almost makes my hands shake—all that stored up potential at the ready, and I'm just letting it bleed out softly. I burn to cast a spell, to form that potential energy into a kinetic tidal wave, but I harness the desire and keep probing peacefully. The angel's strands hesitantly prod my magic before abruptly shooting through it. My breath catches before I realize that the strands are…tickling me?

"He-he-hey! Cut that o-out! Haha! That tickles!" I beg between giggles. The angel is merciless.

"It's no use. He tickled me too," you unhelpfully inform me. Kuslov highly disapproves of my raucous peels of laughter, and irritably ducks his head as far down into his bulk as he can. The effect is a feathered ball with ear tufts and glaring eyes. I'm too preoccupied to notice.

"You're going to make me vomit!" I cry. Just when I'm about to make good on that proclamation, the strands ease up, and for a brief inhalation, a being flickers into sight.

"There! I saw him for a second!" I gasp and try to recover my breath.

"Don't lose focus!" you bark. "Keep mingling your magic with his. He'll relent eventually if you prove you're not a threat."

"Right. Right. Alright you imp, how about a return tickle?" I flush my magic out towards his, but ensure that it's benign. Tinkling wind chimes and a whistling breeze fuse together to form his laughter. He pushes back and the tug-o-war of tickles is on. I must be making a good impression—he's blinking frequently in and out of my vision. Suddenly, his strands seize my magic, shake it vigorously, rattling my teeth and nearly bowling me over, then withdraw. I've just experienced my first magical handshake. The angel solidifies before me, grinning from ear to ear as he observes from his spot among the grass.

"Well, hello to you too!" I chortle. His incredibly ocean-blue eyes glitter at me in good humor.

"Congratulations, Albus. You're now acquainted with an angel."

"Yeah, I guess I am," I whisper astounded. An angel. A real, live angel! I shake my head flabbergasted and fall to my rump. You move to sit beside me.

"Remarkable, isn't he?" you muse.

"U huh," I manage. The angel cocks his head and frowns slightly at our inspection. He's small, resembling a young child of about seven but lacking any traces of baby fat. He's also lean and appears quite delicate, yet full of verve. Contrary to my assumption, he is not wearing a robe of white. Instead, he wears a dark blue shirt with long, heavy sleeves. Intricate embroideries—weaves of gold and silver—encircle his wrists and cascade over the front of the shirt. The ends of the shirt reach to the top of his knees, which are bent. One of his hands rests behind him, keeping his torso upright. His pants are made of the same blue, lightweight cloth that his shirt is and seem to be a bit too long for him; the ends bunch and fold-over on the tops of his bare feet. He wiggles his toes, runs his free hand—previously casually strewn over his knee—through his short, shaggy, black hair, and yawns at us.

"Look Gellert, we're riveting." I jostle you lightly in the ribs.

"From what I've observed these past few days, this one ventures here often. He's probably been watching us since summer's start."

"So we have a fan. Who knew?"

"What do you mean we? I believe he just yawned at you."

"My good man, you are greatly confused," I scoff. "You're the boring one. But what about the other two?" I ask before you can spit out whatever counter-remark you've thought of.

"The other two angels?"

"Yes. They were drastically different from this little fellow."

"I haven't encountered them since those times. I think they were just passing throu—."

A loud rustle muffles the rest of your statement. The angel swiftly stands, spreads enormous white wings, and leaps into the air. Tendrils of light and color envelope him as he vanishes.

"Ha! _You're_ the boring one." You raise your eyebrow in skepticism before we both fall back and stare with stupid smiles at the sky.

…Oh, how happy we were then and how miserable we were about to become.

* * *

"Oh come off it Aberforth! You can't stay mad at me forever!" Aberforth isn't speaking to me. He hasn't for days. After another epic shouting match upon my return home from seeing the little angel, he has reached the conclusion that ignoring my existence is the best way to punish me. It's irritating as hell.

"…" Aberforth, of course, refuses to reply. He stares intently at his book, a book I know he isn't actually reading. Aberforth has never much cared for The Art of Rune Reading.

"Ergh. Fine! I give. What must I do to make you talk to me?"

Aberforth glowers sullenly at me.

"What? WHAT?"

"The last few times I've asked you to stop being such an idiot have fallen on deaf ears. So, what's the point of asking again?"

"Alright, look, Aberforth, you're mad about me leaving to—"

"Sneaking."

"What?"

"I think you mean, sneaking off. Not leaving, happy as you please."

"Euagh. Have it your way. You're mad about me _sneaking_ off to see Gellert. But seriously. Is it so wrong of me to want to see my friend every now and then?"

"It is when he's an egotistical, spiteful mush brain."

"What do you have against Gellert anyway?"

Aberforth slams his book shut with vehemence. "You're really that blind. Unbelievable."

"Well, as you have ample sight for both of us, why don't you enlighten this blind man?"

"_Gellert_ views you as a loyal lapdog. Nothing more."

"That's not true!"

"YES IT IS! He's poison, Albus! All he wants is for the rest of the world to bow before him. He _hates_ opposing opinion, he _hates_ muggles, and he _hates_ Ariana! Sure, he seems to respect you now, but once he seizes the power he's seeking, he'll pat your head, call you a good boy, and then _allow_ you to sit at your master's feet!"

"Any problems you have with me, you take them up with me! There's no need for you to slander Gellert in a petty attempt to hurt me!"

"How do you not run into walls with those blinders you're sporting?"

"Simple. I'm not wearing any. You're the one with skewed vision."

"You keep telling yourself and the world that, and maybe your master will get you that new, shiny collar you've always wanted."

I'm reaching that dangerous level, the one at which my magic explodes and then throttles anything near me. As appealing as a dead Aberforth sounds right now, I'm in no mood to clean up the mess.

"I don't have to listen to this," I growl and move forward to scoop up all the letter's I've left on the living room table since our last argument. Aberforth springs up from his spot on the stiff chair across the room, and with a speed and finesse I thought him incapable of, beats me to them.

"Give me my letters, Aberforth."

"Why? So you can use them as an excuse to slink away?" He waves them around his head.

"Don't try my patience," I warn.

"Or what?" A spark of cruel inspiration flares up in his eyes, and I realize what Aberforth's terrible intention is as he moves to enact it.

"Don't you dare!"

"Dare to do what, dear sibling of mine? Dare to do…this?" Aberforth gleefully flings a handful of my letters in the lowly burning fireplace. He flicks his wrist, revitalizing the dying flames. The letters crackle and curl into ashes.

"Stop it," I hiss between tight lips.

"Stop what?" More letters meet their fiery demise.

"I'm not joking! Just—CURSE IT, ABERFORTH! Knock it off! Hey! I'm about to hurt you! Don't—I HAVEN'T EVEN READ THAT ONE YET!" I scream as my brother draws back to destroy the last letter I received. The one you said was redundant.

"Ooooh. You haven't read this one yet? Well, let's see what gushing words of friendship it holds," Aberforth sneers. He dramatically rips open the envelope, and looking at me, stretches it between his hands. He misses the black smoke that sizzles up from the ink.

"Aberforth! Drop i—" I try to alert him of the danger. It is a futile effort.

"Hu—" Aberforth's confusion morphs into a shriek of pain as a swatch of ink melts into a blade, striking him in the side of the face. He drops the last letter into the fire, where it spits and hisses like a groaning serpent. A puff of black and vile smoke marks the letter's passing.

"Aberforth!" I hasten to his side, but he thrusts me off with a hard elbow. The length of his left cheek is streaming blood, which drips to the floor, splattering the polished wood. He glares at me from between his fingers, one hand protectively clutching his face. I can't tell if the cut reaches his left eye or not.

"_THAT_ is what I have against your _FRIEND_!" He howls angrily.

"There-there must be some sort of mistake. Gellert wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what? CURSE one of his letters to you? What'd you do Albus? Disagree with him? Fail to lick his hand?" Aberforth swings the hand at his face outwards. Blood arcs across the room. My heart freezes with the air in my lungs at the sight of it smeared across my brother's face and soaking his palm. I'm reminded of a wolf that's just ripped apart an elk.

"I-I..He-e…"

"Did you forget to tell him how magnificent he is? Was it because you ignored him?" I can't withhold a wince at that last accusing question. "Ooh-ho. So, that's it? He got upset because you didn't go see him soon enough? The good little doggy didn't come when he was called?"

"You're wrong," I feebly deny.

"That _PSYCHO_ cursed a letter to his _alleged_ friend for no damn good reason at all! If you'd opened that, you would have lost your eye! He'd have partially _blinded_ you, Albus!"

"SHUT UP!" A vase in the hall shatters at the same time that a chair explodes; bits of glass and splinters skitter across the floor. I don't want to hear this. It's not real. It's…a mistake. A setup. I should be tending to my brother's wound. The cut's deep and still oozing. But I can't. The synapses in my brain won't fire in the correct sequence.

"I…I'm sorry Aberforth," I eek out before bolting out the front door.

"You can't run away from this, ALBUS!" My brother's shout streaks after me. Damned if I'm not going to try though.

Of course my first panicked thought was to run straight to you. I hit your fence hard, struggling with the gate latch for clumsy seconds before sprinting into your yard and banging on the door.

"Gellert! Hey! It's Albus! He—ey," the last bit wheezes out of me as my voice fades. Huffing and puffing, I flip around and lean back tiredly against the door. I feel like I've stepped directly out of my house and right in front of this one—I don't remember the run here. Aberforth's rough eyes sand through my eyelids. His wounded face stains my thoughts.

"Gell," I mumble and reach for the doorknob. Unexpectedly, it turns beneath my hand and I nearly twist into a face-plant, just managing to keep a hold of the knob. Stumbling, I gain my footings and turn to inspect the innards of your dark abode.

"Gellert? …Ms. Bagshot? Hello? Ms. Bagshot? Anyone here?" I step tentatively through the entry hall and glance around the corner into the sitting room. The house is awash in shadow.

_CRASH!_

The sweat-slicked hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. The sounds of a heavy picture frame toppling to the ground almost make me jump. A dark, bedraggled shape bobs towards me, colliding with my midriff.

"Kuslov!" I gasp and embrace the owl in my arms. The poor creature is in sad shape: feathers falling off in tufts, covered in grim and dirt, and charred.

"Hoo—hack!" Kuslov coughs at me.

"What happened? Where's Gellert?" At the mention of "Gellert", Kuslov writhes in my arms, nipping my hand when I refuse to let him go. "Ow!"

I wrestle the feisty fowl onto the couch. He rolls to his feet and back away into a corner.

"Easy. Easy. I'm not going to hurt you." I remove my wand, preparing to cast some simple healing spells. Unfortunately, Kuslov prevents that. The bird immediately starts hissing and clacking his beak at the sight of the magical instrument.

"I'm just trying to help you," I try to placate him. He leans low, digging his claws into the cushions, tearing the upholstery. I reach out to him, and he launches into the air. Slamming briefly into the glass, he rushes the window and swoops out on the second try.

I'm stunned. Something very bad has happened. It's obvious no one else is here. But where? Where would…the clearing! Of course!

As fast as I've come, I'm off again, running to our clearing. With each stride, I notice the growing crackle of magic in the air. Funny, I don't remember them predicting rain today, yet the sky is quickly deepening to a bulging bruise. The magic is starting to make my skin itch. Ignoring tree branches as they swat me defensively in the face, I burst through the foliage and skid to a rattling and shocked halt.

"Gell—ert. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I shout over slashing winds, which race in spirals around the clearing.

"Oh, Albus!" You merrily greet, as though it's just another tralala day. "I tried to get Kuslov to send you an invitation, but that dumb bird wouldn't hold still. Then the beast had the audacity to bite me!"

"_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_" I shriek again. How can you be so cavalierly talking about your owl? Especially when you're…I'm not sure what it is I'm seeing. Runes. Painted runes sparkle in a circle in the air, flickering and wavering. Lightening flashes overhead, distorting outwards and away from the center of the clearing. There's a great boulder sitting there. Tethered to it in magically enhanced chains is the little angel.

"Oh what? This? Ah! Don't you see, Albus? This is our chance!" you say excitedly as though you're showing me your new Christmas present.

The angel strains against his restraints, his wings fluttering in a spastic flurry. The tendrils of his magic are strangled just as much as he. He is no longer bright and smiling but desperate and enraged. It's like watching a rabbit caught in a snare.

"W-what are you talking about? Chance to do WHAT?" The wind is really starting to gallop. Bits of dirt and blades of grass are whirlpooling around us. I'm forced to squint against the onslaught.

"Why our chance to change the world! For the greater good," you tack on as an afterthought.

"And how is _this_ going help us achieve that?" I furiously throw my arm out and step forward.

"Isn't it obvious?" You disdainfully rest one hand on your hip and frown at me. "You've felt how strong and enticing an angel's power is. If we can utilize that intoxicating property, no one would oppose our will! And if they did, we could use the raw force of these creatures' energy to _persuade_ them.

"This one here," you wave vaguely at the snarling angel, "will be the first. The guinea pig, if you will. We can use him to learn everything we need to know to capture the other, more _impressive_ angels and form them into an army."

"You're mad," I breathe in bafflement. Truly, this insanity takes me by complete surprise.

"How can you say that? Albus, this is our _chance_. This is the path!" you entreat me. I can see my own confusion reflected in your eyes. How is it that we've both so drastically misjudged the other?

"Path? Path to what? Listen to yourself! You can't mean this!"

It starts to rain.

"You know I do. I thought you would stand beside me. I thought you wanted to be great."

"Not like this. Gellert, please, let the angel go. You know this isn't right," I plead.

"What I know is that this is the best opportunity I have to accomplishing my goals. If you're too _weak_ to stand next to me, then you can just stand aside!" You slash your wand downwards in my direction. A blast of wind slams into me, pushing me back into a tree.

"UGH!" My back wrenches unpleasantly, and I fall to my knees. Stunned, I stare in horror as you spread your hands to access the runes.

"Now, you will belong to me!" Your arms move in a complicated gesture. The ruins vibrate in a buzzing dance. They begin whipping the captive angel in random sequence with shocks of terrible energy.

"No," I whisper.

The angel's screams are the most horrifying I have ever and will ever hear. They are the embodiment of every agonizing sound: the scratch of nails on a chalkboard, the mournful cry of a child separated from its mother, the high-pitched wail of hurricane winds, the shattering of glass, the scratching of metal along metal, the death cries of a thousand different animals. The intertwining of soulfully beautiful music with this screeching cacophony transforms the noise into something altogether more dreadful.

"Stop it. STOP IT!"

The angel is crying now—his tears of blood sparkle with the blue of his eyes. The color of them drains gradually down his face leaving an empty black in its place. His wings are starting to smolder.

"I said STOP!" My magical ability slips my mind as I lunge at you. Sneering, you swing your wand in my direction, but your attention is split, and I dodge easily past the knives of wind. Springing off of tense legs, I nail you in the midsection. We both slide wetly in a puddle of mud.

"Get OFF ME!" You lift your wand to cast something nasty at me. I instantly bash your face with a closed fist, cutting your cheek. Your eyes widen in befuddled rage. My physical violence has shocked you into inaction, but I'm taking no chances. Finally remembering my own wand, I stand back and use it to deftly and efficiently bind your arms to your body. You're now nothing more than an impotent lump in the mud.

Gesticulating frantically, I spit out every counter-spell and rune-canceling limerick that I know. Thankfully, one of them—I have no idea which one—works. The eerily glowing calligraphy of the runes fizzles and fades. Rushing forward, I catch the angel in my arms as he collapses backwards. His clothing is ripped and melting, his skin burned, and feathers charred. The worst is his eyes. Bulging and unseeing, they stare straight up into the rain.

"What have you done?" I cradle the little angel's head and rock softly back and forth. "Gellert, what have you done?"

You roll on your side to face me. All you do is stare.

"How could you?"

The heavens rain upon us: you, the angel, and me.

* * *

"Check."

Aberforth and I are playing chess. It has been little over a week since "the incident", as I like to think of it in my mind—referring to it as anything else is too painful and inadequate. He's actually talking to me again, although, his bandaged cheek serves as a constant visual "I told you so". I could have healed it, easily at that, but he prefers it to heal without the aid of magic, which will take a while yet given the dark magic still festering in it. His way of punishing me.

"Your move."

We're playing the muggle version. Wizard's chess frightens Ariana with its violence. Anything that causes her distress remains off-limits, especially when she's in the room, as she currently is. She and the little angel are curled up in a corner. Humming softly, she's showing him how to make Jacob's Ladder out of a tied piece of string.

"Check."

The first few days the angel was here, I was wretchedly worried for him. All he would do was morosely sit in a dark corner like an oversized doll and weep softly. Nothing I or Aberforth did penetrated his depressed shield. That remains another huge concern. Ever since that day, the angel's magic has weakened and warped rendering him visible to the world. Aberforth and I could not stop this progression. I had reached my desperate wits end when Ariana came to the rescue.

"You can't do that."

"And why not?"

"Still in check."

Aberforth and I were wracking our brains to try and figure out how to help the angel when Ariana skipped down the stairs and into the room. The past few days had not been good ones for her. This was the first one she had been out of her room since I brought the angel home. Halting momentarily in the doorway, she tilted her head, assessing the uncommon being. A decision within her was reached. Smiling gently, she walked forward, and before Aberforth or I could react, she pulled the angel into a hug.

The angel failed to react at first, continuing to stare blankly out of his now ebony colored eyes. Then, slowly, he relaxed in her embrace. She began to hum softly and pet his hair. Surprisingly, he hummed back, the sound ethereal and sorrowful, but also peaceful. The angel and Ariana have been inseparable ever since.

"How about this then?"

"That works."

Ariana and the angel influence each other in a very positive way. The angel keeps Ariana calm and almost, al—most, normal. With him at her side, she acts like a dreamy but average young girl, albeit not a talkative one. She, in turn, entertains and uplifts the angel, bringing back a dimmer version of that joyful gleam in his eyes. Their friendship fills me with the hope that one day angel might recover. His blackened feathers are greying and becoming gradually lighter.

"Checkmate."

"What?"

"Checkmate."

"…I really don't like you right now, Albus."

"That, I think I can live with."

"Humph. Well, I'm famished. Anyone else up for some food?" Aberforth glances at Ariana and the angel. A few weeks ago, I would have asserted that such a gesture was pointless, but now, Ariana actually meets Aberforth gaze and nods briefly. The angel, following Ariana's lead, hesitantly looks at Aberforth and nods as well.

"Right, so snacks for three."

"I'm a little hungry myself," I add.

"As I said, snacks for three," Aberforth repeats. Before "the incident" and our newfound understanding, Aberforth would have genuinely meant that with as much spleen as possible. Now, however, I know he's kidding. The clinking of four glasses shortly after Aberforth disappears into the adjoining kitchen confirms this.

Bending over, I start putting up the chess set. A heavy knocking sounds from the front door.

"I got i—" I begin to say when the door bursts open, and who should stalk through the entry hallway into the living room but—"Gellert?"

"Albus. I've been fire-calling you for ages. Kuslov hasn't come home, but you must have gotten the messages I sent with my aunt's owl."

"How dare you waltz in here like you own the place!" Aberforth thunders as he swoops into the room, a glass creaking in his tight fist. The angel shudders at the sight of you and presses tightly into Ariana's side. She coos to him and glowers in your direction.

"What-what are you doing here, Gellert?" I stand hastily and move to shield Ariana.

"What am I doing here?" you ask flabbergasted. "I wanted to talk to you. Listen, I know that what happened freaked you out, but I think it was just a misunderstanding and I—"

"Misunderstanding?" Aberforth interrupts. "Get out. Get out _now_." He steps threateningly forward, raising the glass as though he intends to use it to break your face. Maybe he does.

"I wasn't talking to _you_," you hiss sharply, "you don't even know what this is about."

"Like hell I don't!"

"Aberforth!" I warn. He shoots me a dirty eyeball, but I don't plan on defending my onetime friend anymore. "Gellert," I start calmly, "I'd like you to leave now."

"What? Is this because of _him_?"

"No. This isn't about Aberforth. This is only about you and me. I…don't think it's healthy for me to see you anymore."

"Don't think it's...? What? What is that supposed to mean?" you demand.

"My brother was right. Gellert, you need help. What you're trying to do…what you're doing, it isn't right." I reach out a hand to grasp your shoulder, but you wrench away and turn to glare me down. Aberforth grows antsy off to the side. He doesn't appreciate his presence being ignored.

"Oh I see. You're upset about what happened. This is your way of punishing me. I'm sorry, alright? Now can we please get out of here?" You brow wrinkles stonily.

"Not this time Gellert. This isn't just going to go away with an unfelt apology. And I'm not trying to punish you. It's…just not going to be how it was."

"Why? _Why?_" Tears, actual tears coat your eyes. I ashamedly drop my gaze and shoulders.

The angel's wings quiver in disquiet. The slight movement catches your mad eyes.

"You still have it?" Naturally, the angel is only an "it" to you. "Is that why you're acting like this? For _that_?"

"No, that's not—"

"It's all that thing's fault." Your eyes scrunch angrily. "Well, if that's the problem, then I'll just fix it." You lift your wand, aiming it at the huddled angel. Ariana tucks him close to her and rotates so he's shielded. Aberforth's mobility returns to him with brutal force, and he tackles you to the ground. Tackling you runs in the family.

"Eat floor scum!" Aberforth has been waiting for this. Unfortunately, your reputation for being a powerful mage is not an exaggeration. Knuckles to the eyes and a swift spell propel my brother into the wall. He thumps to the ground, his wand of no use to him as he's left it—as he often does—sitting unattended on the desk in his room. He's too far out of range for another bodily assault.

"Albus! Get him!" My brother yells. I point my wand at you in the perfec postion to blast you unconscious. Your betrayed eyes find mine and—damn my weakness—I pause. You've always been an opportunist.

"_Lupatum penetrale!_" you intone fiercely. A simple _avada kedavra_ would never suffice with an angel, or so I gather you reason. An instantaneous death is also far too easy and painless to satisfy this perceived grievance. Instead, you decide to use a curse of your own making, an unbelievably cruel one.

Iron spikes, thick and sharp, fly from your wand's end. They rocket through the air right towards Ariana. Though the spikes are fast, she still has enough time to duck out of the way. She doesn't. She's going to protect that angel to her death.

"Ari!" Aberforth screams, but he and I are merely unwilling spectators.

The spikes sink into Ariana's body with sickening _squelches_. There are five in all: one in each shoulder, one under the ribs, one straight through the spine, and the final lodges in her neck. Blood spurts wildly from the wounds. Still, she refuses to release the angel. Her blood fizzles as it lands on his wings.

"Fool girl," you huff.

_My sister. My-my baby sister. This…it can't._

My mind overheats and shuts off. _Now_, I move my wand to do something more than stupefy you. Our final bridge burns in my anguished veins. The angel beats me to my vengeance.

With an enraged scream, one never rivaled by any a mortal has heard, the angel's eyes glow with black flame. The veins in his neck bulge as though his throat can barely cage his fury.

You watch in astonishment as your wand is ripped from your hands and shatters into microscopic splinters. Ripples of power slam your head repeatedly into the hardwood floor as they pass over you. With a final, gut-wrenching, ear-splitting howl, the angel's magical tendrils materialize and whip you right out of the house. You land in a broken heap in the yard, but the angel isn't quite finished. Somehow, he accesses the house's wards and sends them crashing into you. Your limp body tumbles repeatedly over itself until reaching the boundaries of the property where the wards stand still and strengthen dramatically. Nevermore shall you enter this household.

Back inside, Aberforth and I numbly watch as the angel's tendrils transform and shoot into Ariana's body. They force the spikes from her, sealing the wounds behind them. It's too late. The neck spike finished her almost instantly. Pure strength of will kept her rigid body protectively draped over her charge.

"Ari-ARIANA!" Aberforth shrieks and bolts towards her body…her corpse.

The angel's wings drip a black tar-like pus, coating each feather. He carefully holds Ariana's head and pats her cheek distraughtly. This time his tears are clear; there's no blood or color for him to expel.

Aberforth falls on the opposite side of the angel and pulls some of her weight into his own arms. He ignores the tar from the angel's wings as it smears across his face and shoulder and seeps into his pants.

My sister is dead…

…And there's no hope for the angel now.

* * *

The funeral. It's appropriately dreary. People in black. People crying. People I know. Ones I don't. Me in an itchy suit. My brother in another. My sister…my sister in a casket.

This…I don't want to see this. I don't need to live it again.

Blurs. Blurs of color. Blurs of people. Or were the people blurs imitating people? Is there a difference?

Down she goes. Six feet of eternity. Forever restful. Forever quite. But she was always quiet…mostly.

Aberforth breaks my nose.

…

…

…

…I deserve it.

* * *

With a jerk and a sigh, I withdraw from the pensieve. In retrospect, it was obvious: that dark undercurrent always lurked within you. Eventually, it would rear its head, in one fashion or another—I greatly regret the fashion in which it did. The danger in connecting for the first time with someone who supposedly shares your level of intellect, your secret passions, and jubilation of finding another just the same as you, is that this someone, this mirror image of your soul, may bring out the best in you or the very worst. And because you can't help but love that mirror person, it's hard to tell which it is. Then again, I suppose, it's just as easy to be utterly repulsed by that mirror person as it is to love him, as I am discovering.

Though they hurt, revisiting these memories was necessary. The wizarding world expects me to pit my sword against yours and vanquish you. I am their hope, and I must not disappoint them. The memories remind me why my sword will destroy yours. I will not falter.

I do not intend to put these reflections back into my head. No, they are for you. I'm sending them along partly as a last ditch effort to prolong the life of my terminal hope that you will "see the light". Or, more appropriately, see the darkness. The darkness rotting you from the inside out, that part of you that feeds like an infant parasite upon your soul. The inevitable eulogy for my hope lies ready in my top desk drawer.

The main purpose for passing these along is to explain to you why I'm going to do what it is that I will. To remind you why we can't go back. They and the angel—ah, yes, the angel. He stays with me still.

Despite my most valiant efforts, Ariana's demise devastated the angel quite beyond repair. He wings never regained their white color. They stayed black until, one by one, the feathers molted and withered, turning to patches of ash on the floor. Even his wing joints are slowly dissolving. His eyes remain the same haunted black. Black like his hair, which has grown long and scraggly—greasy. His tendrils permanently locked themselves away into the core of his being, a place he'll never again reach.

I'd venture to say he's fallen, except, he was never cast out. You snatched him, tore him down. I like to think that if there is a sentient being above, he knows this, which is why the angel is changing into a mortal wizard and not twisting into a wretched demon. Eventually, he'll even start to age normally.

You can't be bothered with such trifles though. What with running your empire of Harbingers, as you like to call your "followers." Underlings is more accurate. However, "the incident" affected you somehow, for you've abandoned your goal of an angelic army. Now you pursue the Deathly Hallows instead. Hmph. That was what we used to dream about before all the angel business. Had we but stayed on that path…no, no it would have lead to the same tragic ends. We flew too close to the sun on wings of wax, and they could not bear us up forever. This is the immutable truth: I would still stand against you and you would still run around calling yourself the Master of Death or Death Master or whatever bunch of bunk it is you call yourself these days.

Speaking of names, I've given the angel one. One that I find highly appropriate. It's Severus. Can you guess why? Ah, but that is the whole point in sending the memories. They and the angel are meant to always, always remind me, and you, of the ways in which we differ. The ways in which we harm each other. And all the ways in which you—yes, you—_**sever us**_.

FIN

* * *

Emu: For those of you curious, Gellert's spell translates roughly to "penetrating spikes" (specifically iron spikes). The one point in the story in which Albus refers to Gellert in third person was meant to remind you that he's reviewing past events. This was done in that one specific spot because Albus hadn't made any ruminating comments in a while. So, hopefully that wasn't confusing.

Kuslov is my own invention and was actually incredibly fun to write. Initially, he was only mentioned in the story, but I couldn't stop writing about him once I started. Let me know what you think of the greedy fowl.

Thanks for reading. Constructive criticism is—as always—appreciated.


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